


Firebug

by bee_ts



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Female Pyro, I hc pyro as female, Maskless Pyro, Multi, bc i mean Bea is amazing, consider this more some expanded character studies, hopefully this'll go somewhere, i'm bad at tags sorry folks, not gonna be totally shipfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:04:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_ts/pseuds/bee_ts
Summary: This initially started out as a character study of my Pyro HC and their interactions in getting to know their teammates on a more human level (and vice-versa). Hopefully it'll turn into something more structured, story-wise.I've been known to write a fic or two here or there, but I've never published anything before (anxiety and all that). I hope you enjoy my drabbles, and feel free to leave comments <3





	

Sniper sat up in his folding chair, stretching before bending down to grab at the poker beside his seat to tend to the logs in his campfire. Although far from dying coals, the blaze had passed its peak ferocity, and Sniper wondered if it was worth adding another log to feed the flames before calling it a night.

It was odd, he thought to himself, that _they_ hadn’t shown up yet. Not that he was particularly looking for company, but it wasn’t like _them_ to not show up when fire was in the equation.

The scene usually went as such: Some time after starting his nightly fire, Pyro would inevitably emerge from the shadows, drawn to the flame like a large, asbestos-clad moth. The soft glow of the campfire reflecting off the lenses of their mask, Sniper would greet the arsonist and offer them a drink, which was always softly declined as they sat down cross-legged at the fire’s edge. They would then poke at the fire here and there, tending to it between short, muffled conversations and observations of the stars. Eventually, after the fire had died down to its last glowing coals, Pyro would stand up and give a cheerful, muffled goodbye accompanied by a little wave, leaving Sniper alone in the darkness with his camper and a couple empty beers of his own to clean up.

======

It had been two weeks since his last evening fire. A sudden furlough had been announced a fortnight prior, and those who could make travel plans on the fly had hastily vacated the base. The only mercenaries who left for furlough were Engineer, Scout and – to the surprise of the entire team – Pyro. Engineer and Scout were easy enough to understand: Engineer was from Texas, a stone’s throw away from base, and although it was farther to Scout’s home in Boston, he always seemed to find a way to nip home during a ceasefire.

Pyro, however, was an enigma. Ever since arriving on base at the start of everyone’s contract over half a year ago, they had never gone home for furlough.  Where home even was for Pyro, Sniper had no clue. However, Pyro had disappeared the morning furlough was called and appeared on base two weeks later, just as suddenly as they had vanished. No questions were asked, and the fighting resumed without incident the next morning.

======

At last, Sniper’s patience was rewarded as he heard the sound of footsteps, followed shortly by the familiar sight of two dark lenses glinting in the fire-light as they approached. Pyro finally stepped into his line of sight, raising a hand to Sniper in greeting. They took a few more steps forward and turned back to the fire, seemingly hypnotized by the way it crackled and popped as it burned down. Sniper waited knowingly. Pyro’s initial fixation would wear off after a minute or three, and they would notice him again. It was only a matter of time.

After five or so minutes (not that Sniper was counting), Pyro spoke first, breaking the silence. Their muffled words were entirely unintelligible; even for Sniper, a man who developed an odd sense of personal pride for being able occasionally to decipher his incomprehensible teammate.

“… You’re gonna have to repeat that,” Sniper grunted, a tinge of annoyance evident in his voice, “Didn’t hear a damn thing you said.” His beer-holding hand extended a finger, pointing to a spot across from him, near the fire. “Sit down and speak clearly, you know the rules.”

Obedient to a fault, Pyro did as told, sitting down cross-legged at the fire’s edge. They cleared their throat and spoke again, unintelligibly. Before Sniper could rebuke them with their “second strike” of the evening, Pyro huffed a sigh and raised a hand to their mask, stopping Sniper’s words before they could pass his lips. A gloved thumb hooked up under the neck of their mask and pulled upwards, oh-so-slightly.

“I want a drink.”

Sniper coughed, taken by surprise. None of that was what he expected. First of all, Pyro never accepted a drink, not to mention outright asking for one. Secondly – but more importantly – did they just remove their mask? Well, not entirely: they only pulled their mask up enough to reveal their mouth. And _what_ was that voice? It was higher than he’d anticipated, without their gas mask muffling it. Their accent, too, Sniper mused. He couldn’t put a finger on where it was from. Their Ts and Ds were enunciated, and their Rs were somewhat rolled at the tip of their tongue.

_Damn the dim firelight,_ Sniper thought to himself. He was dying to get even the slightest glimpse of the face under that mask, that pair of lips, even.

“… I want a drink.” Pyro repeated, snapping Sniper out of his inner monologue.

“Right, of course.” He nodded and reached into his cooler, which was placed conveniently at his feet for easy, boozy access. Grabbing a beer, he lobbed it in a neat arc over the fire and towards Pyro, who caught it with two hands.

After a few seconds of grappling for purchase on the damp can with a gloved hand, Pyro sighed again and pulled the glove off, revealing a small hand which nimbly popped the tab on the beer. After taking a drink, they placed the can gingerly back on the dusty ground and watched the fire for a moment.

“You pulled a disappearin’ act, didn’tcha?” Sniper leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “On furlough, I mean.”

The dark lenses of Pyro’s mask reflected the firelight as they shifted a little bit.

“Mm,” they grunted quietly in response. Better than being straight-up ignored, something Pyro did when they decided they didn’t want to talk about whatever was proposed. Sniper took another generous swig of beer, his curiosity growing.

“Where were you at?” Sniper asked, “holed up in your room or something?” He looked up from his drink and attempted to level his gaze with his teammate, letting them know he wasn’t taking silence for an answer. Pyro, still staring at the fire, cocked their head before taking a drink and setting it back down.

“Home,” they replied simply, “I had to go back.” They shrugged and took another, larger drink, mumbling something that Sniper could have sworn sounded like _family_ , their body language becoming significantly more guarded.

_This could be veering into dangerous territory,_ Sniper thought, but decided to continue his line of questioning. The worst that could happen was a late-night trip through respawn, which was hopefully kept on after-hours.

“And where’s home?” He questioned further, trying to sound relatively uninterested. _A safe enough question_ , he thought to himself, _not as loaded as this family stuff appears to be, anyways._

A good half-minute of silence – one that felt like an hour to Sniper – followed his question. He had just finished saying a silent prayer to the respawn Gods when he heard Pyro’s voice from across the fire.

“Iceland.” One word, but better than none, and much better than a trip through respawn, which was unpleasant at the best of times.

“Iceland? One’a them Scandi countries, yeah?” He sat back, immensely pleased with himself and his perceived ability to tease information out of the enigmatic Pyro.

“Guess so,” Pyro acquiesced, finishing the rest of their beer and crushing the can in their hand before tossing it towards the fire. “Another.” They held out their de-gloved hand expectantly.

“Hold on now, I ain’t made of BLU Streak, mate,” The Sniper began, but rethought his words when Pyro’s bare hand clenched into a fist. “Hold on,” He repeated, raising his hands defensively, “you didn’t let me finish. I’ll give ya more beer, IF,” he paused, making sure Pyro was paying attention to him and not the fire, “you tell me more about Iceland.” The hand unclenched, and Sniper’s arsehole along with it.

“Fine, but beer first, info after.” Pyro extended their hand, palm up and beckoning.  After they had drank their fill of beer two, the lenses turned to face Sniper again. “Okay, here is more about Iceland: Iceland is not part of Scandinavia.” They paused, seemingly pondering what to say next. Sniper leaned forward expectantly, but Pyro simply returned their focus to the fire, sipping intermittently at their beer.

Realizing he had just sacrificed a beer for that less-than-juicy tidbit of information, Sniper slumped in his chair. _Cute trick,_ he thought, sighing in a manner that hopefully didn’t betray the defeat he felt at that moment. Just when he thought he’d begun to chip away at the façade which was Pyro, he had lost them, predictably, to fire.

“… Bugger,” he muttered under his breath and finished the last of his beer. Placing it on the ground among his empties, Sniper decided against grabbing another. Instead, he opted to sit in silence and watch the now-dying fire with his co-worker.

As the fire died down to nothing but coals, Pyro finished their beer, crushed the can and dropped it to the ground. Replacing their glove, they leaned forwards and poked at what was left of the fire before reaching in and shifting some of the glowing logs, resulting in a few satisfying cracking and popping noises as the charred wood broke apart. With their free hand, they reached up to pull their mask back over their mouth.

“Thanks for the beer,” They said as they replaced their mask. And with that, Pyro returned to being a wheezy, creepy creature-in-an-asbestos-suit, something not-entirely-human.

Sniper knew his narrow window had closed; and, weirdly enough, it disappointed him a lot more than he thought it would.

“Cheers, mate. Don’t get lost on the way back.”

Pyro snorted and laughed quietly, then waved, then sauntered away, back to base for the night.

Getting out of his chair and extinguishing his fire, Sniper couldn’t help but contemplate the half-conversation he’d had with his co-worker. What did he know about Pyro now that he didn’t a couple hours ago? He made a mental recap: _Pyro is from Iceland._ He tried to think beyond that and got stumped. They hadn’t really told him anything more. And really, knowing where the Pyro was from wasn’t all that ground-breaking; it didn’t explain much about them in the long run.

As he lay in the bunk of his camper, he came up with an idea. _Take a page from Spook’s book_ , he told himself, _what can you guess about ‘em from their behaviour?_ He closed his eyes and began to brainstorm:

_One: Pyro is from Iceland, we got that._

_Two: Pyro likes to drink…or, at least, Pyro will talk when given alcohol. Noted._

_Three: Pyro probably has family issues. Then again, who doesn’t in this day and age?_ He winced, thinking of his own situation. _Next._

_Four…_

Sniper snorted, waking up with a start. He had fallen asleep while deducing. He closed his eyes again, nearing the threshold of sleep when his alarm went off.

“Bugger.” Sniper growled, hauling himself out of bed and fixing a coffee. Time for a new day.


End file.
